


while there is still time.

by billielurked



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Boba Fett Needs A Hug, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Eventual Happy Ending, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grief/Mourning, Hope, How to cope with losing everything: start anew, Internal Conflict, Introspection, M/M, Mandalorian Armor (Star Wars), Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), POV Din Djarin, Parenthood, Religious Conflict, Slow Build, writing this for myself but you can read it if u want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29753091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billielurked/pseuds/billielurked
Summary: Directionless without his son, Din Djarin ventures to figure out what being a Mandalorian means to him.Throughout it all, Boba Fett gives him a place to come home to.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 50
Kudos: 194





	1. Echoylir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of each other, we should be kind  
> While there is still time.  
> \- Philip Larkin, _The Mower_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter starts before they pick up mayfield (directly after 2x14: the tragedy), and picks up after the finale. For plot's sake, I'm writing that roughly two week's time passes between Tython and the Imperial cruiser.
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote anything, and likewise, I'm rusty on my Star Wars lore. I love the universe very much, but I am just trying to tell a story within it and have fun; go easy on me!
> 
> here's a link to  
> [ the spotify playlist for this fic.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7qvlWhVwxgegJZN6IibfQS?si=Cq7B7HWDSVq_eiexN021Xg&utm_source=copy-link)

Every hour of every day, Din thought of his son. 

He thought of the way he looked in his hammock when he slept, safe from all the terror of the world outside. He thought of Grogu's cheerful chirp when first referred to by his real name, and how he'd squealed in delight when Din presented him with his freshly stitched coat. He felt the phantom weight of him against his hip, and still caught himself searching for his carrying pouch in the morning, only to realize he had no use for it. 

The Mandalorian thought of his son all the time, and he didn't know how much more he could take. Every sweet, nostalgic memory was soured by the terror of the unknown; he had no way of knowing what was being done to the child. The possibilities were as endless as they were terrifying. 

He swallowed down the swell of guilt that threatened to consume him, fleeing the confining bunk compartment he'd been given to sleep in. Most nights since Tython had been spent pacing, or lying still and awake in the dark, imagining all the things he might do to those Imperials when he finally got his hands on them. It didn't help much.

He retreated alone into a storage room on Boba Fett's ship to take stock of his life.

The Razor Crest had been obliterated- years of his life, turned to ash in the blink of an eye. He missed the sure weight of his Amban rifle, and the comfort of the familiar pilots seat. All he had was on his back. It would have to be enough.

Din removed his jetpack, setting it carefully against the wall by the table and chairs where he sat down. The tight space was surely used for repairs, judging by the many cabinets and racks of tools bolted securely to the walls. 

The ship was odd. 

It very clearly belonged to a dangerous man. Practicality and purpose preceded comfort or aesthetics, though he was surprised, too, by how lived-in it felt. Not so unlike his own ship, he supposed- this was considerably larger and more expensive, but the similarities remained. It also reminded him of a hive or a cave of some sort; there were cramped rooms and unexpected compartments folded into every corner of it, so long as one stepped out of the ever-rotating center space. He wasn't enthused about how crowded it was going to get once they picked up Mayfield.

The door slid open with a hiss, snapping him out of his reverie. 

Boba Fett didn't even look at him, walking straight over to a rack on the wall and putting a worn looking pistol-grip hand drill back where it belonged. He latched it securely in place and then turned away, shuffling through a neat stack of flimsi sheets and holo pads.

The silence was comfortable- enough so that Din felt no qualms about breaking it. "This is an impressive ship."

With a datapad in hand, the helmeted bounty hunter turned towards the table, sliding silently into the seat across from him. "Thank you."

They sat like that for a while, one man focused on reading a thick block of text displayed on the datapad he held, the other watching the reflection of said text flicker in his T-visor.

The helmet was scuffed- worse than that, caked in old sand and dirt, marred by time. The red was dull, the green barely-there. His breastplate fared no better. 

Din cleared his throat. "Your armor." 

Boba grunted, still transfixed on the datapad in his hands.

"It was in the desert for a _long_ time." Obviously. "It got a little… beaten up. The paint.. suffered." 

"No need to apologize."

He wasn't going to. Was he supposed to? Din shifted uneasily in his seat. "The man who wore it before, he had it on when we killed a Krayt Dragon." 

Boba snorted, turning one wrist to give the armor there an appraising look. "I heard. I suppose that's one more beast of Tatooine that couldn't completely demolish it." 

The Mandalorian rapped his own beskar-plated forearm, nodding. "It did its job."

"Yours seems to have held well in the scuffle." 

"Yes." He swallowed; he would have liked to be of help, but where once he felt confident about things concerning Mandalorians and their practices, Bo-Katan's accusations of zealotry had cowed him somewhat. Still, he felt that offering Fett his armor in such a state was nearly as offensive as denying him altogether.

Din flattened one hand against the table. "I'd like to help you restore your armor." 

Boba abruptly bestowed him with his full, undivided attention. "What?"

"I can clean, buff, and paint it. If there's internal damage in the buy'ce, I'm familiar enough with the workings to repair it." 

"So am I." He set the datapad aside. "I'm fully capable of repairing it myself." 

"Of course. It's yours." Din understood- perhaps more than most- the desire to be private about one's armor. It was like a second skin; to allow someone else to do what they pleased with it would be incredibly intimate, and would demand a level of trust he was sure he hadn't earned. Prepared to drop his presumptuous offer and move on, Din started to stand.

"The paint should be over there, in the third cabinet down." 

He said nothing, taken aback, and followed his instructions.

Din once helped the foundlings Balen and Mir'dral paint their armor in preparation for their respective ceremonies. They'd been so excited that they could scarcely even focus on the task at hand, slathering sloppy coats of paint on without waiting for the last to dry. 

He hoped Mir'dral didn't come to regret the acidic purple color they insisted upon. 

He hoped that they survived. 

They were only children. 

It didn't take him long to find the tightly sealed bottles of green, umber, maroon and silver; he set them down as Boba passed him a kit of airbrush supplies. The workroom around them was dotted with compartments and containers; it was all very organized, as was Boba's methodical approach, pulling tools out and laying them upon the table with careful precision. 

Din averted his eyes when the other man unclipped his breastplate and removed his helmet, as if he hadn't already seen him without it. Old habits.

While Boba handled the helmet, he allowed him to tend to the smaller pieces. Din took great care when cleaning the breastplate and pauldrons.

The process was slow and thorough, no mark or scuff of dirt missed. His nose scrunched beneath the helmet at the smell of the harsh chemicals. He then primed it, waiting in amicable silence for it to dry.

It wasn't until he was ready to move on from priming to painting that Boba spoke once more. "It's been a long time since I made any updates to my armor."

"Hm. You said it was your father's." He watched as Boba removed his pauldrons one by one. "I inherited my first durasteel from an elder in my Tribe, when she passed."

"That's not durasteel," he commented on Din's armor, handing over his own vambraces. "Do these in red."

"This armor is beskar, yes." He uncapped the bottle and twisted the airbrush attachment on. "I earned it much later." 

"You didn't paint it." 

"No, I didn't." Din was very proud of his armor, honored to wear it, but it was also a reminder of his own shameful dealings with the Imperials.

He lived encased in silver, the color that meant _seeking redemption_ , and could not envision a time when he might deserve to change it. 

He tried to focus on keeping the airbrush steady. 

Boba's color choices intrigued him, too. Whether they held the same significance to him, he didn't know; maybe they were simply the colors his father had chosen, and he never saw fit to change it. Din let his assumptions get away from him as they worked in tandem.

Red, for honoring a parent.

Time passed by unnoticed until every piece was matte and fresh, and the room stank of paint and chemicals. Satisfied, Din handed over the last thigh plate so it might be set aside to seal.

"This looks good."

He inclined his head, gathering up the scattered supplies and packing them away once more. 

Boba moved to the rack where the tools hung, pressing a button alongside the board. 

It retracted with a hiss, revealing behind it what looked like an oven, and a small refrigerator. Another button pressed and the other rack of tools retracted to reveal an assortment of boxed spices, teas, containers of rations and a stack of metal bowls and multipurpose cutlery. The ship's design was far more robust than it looked at first glance.

He huffed, pushing the cabinet shut with his shoulder. "You really thought of everything."

"I didn't. It was my father's ship before it was mine."

That stung, somehow. He thought back to the meagre dishes of affordable rations he'd served Grogu while they sat atop cargo crates. The child had never gone _hungry_ , but-

"Tea?" Boba asked in an incredibly domestic manner, bare of his armor, rifling thoughtfully through the many options. 

Curious.

Unthinking, Din nodded, sitting down. It was considered rude among his kind to reject offers of food or drink when staying in someone else's home- and judging by the presence of this strangely innovative kitchenette itself, he realized that this really was the other man's home, just as the Razor Crest had been his own. He was continually fascinated by this Boba Fett and his many surprises. 

"Any preference?"

"No."

The water bubbled as it heated. It'd been a very long time since Din had prepared anything more complex than a dehydrated ration square. He swallowed, and could almost taste that dusty, flavorless texture. 

He stared at Boba's rough hands as he poured him a cup of tea.

Sitting across from him, the other man affixed him with an unblinking stare as he sipped his own.

When Din didn't move to pick it up, Boba grabbed his hand and pushed the cup into it in a way that from most others might feel intrusive, but from him, felt encouraging, warm. He felt strangely satisfied with this gesture. 

"When you're on my ship," said Boba, "you have to eat, and you have to sleep."

"Okay." Din's fingers curled about the mug, relishing in the warmth that spread from it. "I.. have to be alone, if I'm going to do any of that." 

"That's fine." Boba squeezed his hand around the mug once more. He then plucked his helmet off the table, his cup in the other hand, and left the room.

It was very good tea.

•

In a backroom of the ship, the door guarded dutifully by Dune, they kept the Moff cuffed to a shelf. 

The Imperial himself was no longer a risk, thanks to the magnetized cuffs that kept him in temporary bondage. When Din passed the Marshal, she had nothing to offer him but that sad, empathetic look everyone kept giving him that he was very quickly tiring of. He slipped by without a word.

Din Djarin didn't know much about the Moff, except that he liked to talk. He hoped that would work in his favor. The door hissed shut behind him.

The flight to their agreed-upon drop off point was quite the distance away. They had plenty of time. 

"Tell me what you know about the Jedi."

His abrupt intrusion didn't seem to bother Moff Gideon, judging by his relaxed posture upon the floor, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon."

"Answer the question."

"What is there to tell that you don't already know?"

 _Anything_ , Din thought, but refused to offer him even a sliver of leverage. He stared quietly down at the other man, his hand moving to rest very intentionally upon the hilt of the darksaber at his hip.

The Imperial officer had the gall to laugh at him. "Oh, I know. Tempting tool, isn't it? Very practical to have at hand in tense moments."

"Tell me what you know about the Jedi," Din repeated, his even voice betraying none of his fraying patience.

"Mmm. What's in it for me?"

"Your life."

The Moff clicked his tongue. "Your Republic friends surely wouldn't approve of you wringing my neck now." 

"I'm sure I can find a good excuse."

"I thought you lived by an _honor_ code." Gideon lifted his handcuffed arms, showing his sparse garb, stripped of his guns and his armor, even the shock pill extracted from his teeth. No way out. "I'm a defenseless prisoner."

"So was the child." 

"Trying to guilt me? You must be _quite_ desperate." 

"I followed through on my promise." Din paused. "The child is safe. You will never see him again."

"I suppose that's one thing we have in common, then, Djarin."

A freshet of grief burst deep within him. 

Just as he turned his back, ready to stalk out of the cramped storage space and never look him in the eye again, the prisoner spoke up.

"They take children from their families when they're young. Their relationships with all others are severed. After years of training them into perfect soldiers, they've every right to cast them aside if lacking in traits they deem worthy." He sighed deeply, as if it was very tedious to explain such a thing.

"I suppose this was the one practice we borrowed from them. It does very interesting things to a soldier, psychologically, to grow up in such a way. They're very effective. They burn out quickly." 

Din turned ever so slightly. The Moff's voice was almost casual, smug, like he'd be cleaning his teeth with a pick if he had one. 

"They're not all alike."

"Oh, you've met many?"

He bit his tongue.

"Of course not. Their own soldiers cut them down like livestock." Moff Gideon exhaled, twiddling his thumbs upon his knees. "Jedi all become egotistical fanatics, fall to their real desires, die, or wander forever in pursuit of an answer that'll never come. Alone."

"Why should I believe any of that?"

The Moff ignored him.

"It's all about detachment. Loving another is very dangerous, you see. The path to the _dark side_." He chuckled. "Funny that you fought so hard to take the child from me, just to surrender it to a similar outcome." 

He let the door slam behind him. 

•

It'd been six hours since he gave his son away to a stranger, and three since the Moff gave him more reason to regret it. 

For much of his life he had worked hard to dig an uncrossable gap between himself and other people. He'd dug, and dug, and dug, and kept digging until one day he knew he'd dug too far, and realized that there was no going back. While he had succeeded in trapping other people upon that other shore where they could not hurt him, he had also trapped himself. 

He was almost impressed by how quickly Boba Fett managed to look over the gap with his discerning, serious gaze and step across it with ease.

The darksaber sat in the center of the table, unmoving. Din sat and stared at the cold responsibility he'd been given. It was no replacement for what was gone. 

Boba stood in the door and stared at his staring. 

"You'd best not light that thing while on my ship."

"I won't."

"Hm." Two steps and a sigh later, the other man plucked it from the table to look more closely. "You won it from the Moff."

"I had to," he ground out, "to rescue the child."

"And yet he's not here." 

Were he not so dulled by grief, such a testing statement might've made him lash out. His tone lowered, hoarse, warning. "He's safe with his kind. Where he belongs." 

"He's your son," Boba insisted. "he _is_ your kind."

"He's not. For a time, I was to act like a father to him, but only until I could deliver him to his people." Din didn't know what to do with his hands, fists flexing where they rested on the table. "I've done that. I'm done now. He is no longer mine."

Boba reached out and tapped at the sigil engraved on Din's pauldron. "The mudhorn. It's your signet?"

"... Yes."

"How'd you earn it?"

"He saved me from it. He- we defeated it."

If Boba wondered how an infant saved his life, he didn't ask. "If you're one clan, it doesn't matter if you're separated."

Din stared at the saber as it was set back down before him. His bone-deep fatigue made itself known, his every limb aching as he sat, tense and still.

The other man sat down across from him with a groan. They did not look at each other for some time. Then, Boba murmured; "My father used to tell me that children are a gift."

"They are," Din replied. "You never think you could care so much about something."

 _It's remarkable_ , he thought, _how much I could love a child I always knew I could not keep._

"It sounds overwhelming."

"It turns you into something you'd never thought you would become."

Among his people, children matter most; they eat first, are given the best portions, are allowed to sleep the longest, and are loved wholly by many, many parents. Din was never formally adopted into a clan because every adult in the covert was his parent, in their own way. He did not need a mother or father who shared his name to know that he was loved. 

He hoped Grogu knew. 

With his hands in his lap, he let his posture relax, slumping back into the chair.

"It breaks you open." 

•

"Why Trildan?” Fennec asked, squinting at the deciduous forest that stretched out before them.

“What ever happened to _"no questions asked_ "?” 

“Don’t insult me- I’m not with the Guild.” She smiled. "I get to ask all the questions I want." 

Some small mammal scurried through the trees. There was only one clear road ahead, cutting straight to the biggest city around. “I have some unfinished business here.”

“Ominous.” 

Din exhaled heavily behind his helmet, the air fogging within it. “It’s really not.” 

Trildan was just another Outer Rim planet- dense with plant and animal life, with a sparse population of settlements based around an Alum mine.

Boba Fett’s ship was mostly empty. Dune had been dropped off on Nevarro, dragging the Moff behind her to the small army of Republic soldiers waiting with a transport. 

They had left the three Mandalorians behind on their promised light cruiser- he mourned that it alone was not payment enough for the recovery of the child. Koska had been the only one to speak to him before they disembarked; look for Ephra Dane on Trildan, she said to him, and tell her who sent you. There are more of us, she said, and he believed her.

“We’re going back to Tatooine. Boba and I.” Fennec paused, turning to look him right in the visor. “You could come with us.”

The offer was tempting, but some part of him knew he could not accept it just yet. “Thank you, but I can’t.”

She nodded and turned away, the sound of her footsteps receding into the ship. Moments later, Boba Fett came down to fill the empty space beside him. 

"Good luck," said Din. "On Tatooine."

"I won't need luck. I've got _her_." Boba jerked a thumb over his shoulder. He could almost feel the grin beneath that helmet. 

"The way she cut down those Imperials... I have no doubt."

"Hm. Speaking of- Fennec told me what happened on the bridge of that light cruiser." 

Din's posture stiffened. It was a very fresh wound. "Oh." 

"I thought you did not take the helmet off in the company of others." 

Boba did not request he take it off. He did not reach for it with violent, entitled hands- did not beg or tease or taunt him to unmask himself. He only stood there, eyes trained on the forest, as if he'd avert his gaze even if Din took it off right that very moment. 

"I don't." He sighed. "It's complicated." 

The helmet meant something. The Creed meant something. It had to, because he had dedicated his life to it; he had killed and maimed for it, had abandoned many a path in life, had lost much in sacrifice. The Resol'nare was a burden to him just as much as it was a gift, and it was his daily duty to wrestle with it. 

He could not reveal himself to the world so casually, like it meant nothing, even to a friend. 

To bare his face in the name of saving a child was justifiable; he didn't have it in him to justify anything else just yet. 

"That's fine. You don't have to share."

This mild reaction forced him to turn his bewildered gaze back to the other man. Very rarely- almost never- did people show such respect and restraint when it came to the matter of his beskar'gam. After days spent under the sharp eyes of others who judged him, his relief was palpable. "Thanks, Fett."

"Boba." The man squared his shoulders. "Just call me Boba."

"Okay."

Somewhere deep inside of him, something clicked; he liked being with Boba very much. His silence was comforting, and his words were steady; he was funny, confident, and he surely loved as fiercely as he fought, because that was the way of their shared people. He liked the mutual respect they had formed so quickly, despite the rocky introduction.

He liked the way he looked right then, as he slowly pulled his own freshly painted helmet off his head. Din swallowed.

Not so long ago, he would have reacted harshly towards any other Mandalorian who bared their face to him- realizing that his own practices were subject to scrutiny changed that. If Boba didn't judge him for wearing it, Din would not judge him for taking it off. He was not a child.

"You've got to go," Boba exhaled, his handsome face pinched in thought. "You're searching for something, yes?"

He nodded. "I am."

"You'll find it. You're a good hunter."

The praise made his neck prickle. Behind the beskar and glass, Din smiled, ducking his chin to his chest.

Boba leaned forward, hand outstretched. Ever so gently, he curled his fingers beneath the chin of Din's helmet, lifting his head to stare into his visor.

His breath caught in his throat. 

One hand shot out to grasp Boba's forearm- mostly taken by surprise, partially in the instinct to push him away from touching his helmet like that. But the other man made no move to lift it, just peering very seriously into the visor as if he could glean anything whatsoever from what he saw there. Din felt like he was on fire. 

"Don't get lost out there," said Boba, and took three sweeping steps backwards over the ramp, disappearing up the ladder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glossary:  
>  _(Mando'a)_  
>  * Echoylir: To Grieve/To Search. Grieving is an act of seeking; of being lost.  
> * Beskar'gam: Mandalorian armor.  
> * Buy'ce: Mandalorian Helmet/"bucket"  
> * Mirdral: a made-up Mandalorian name, meaning something along the lines of ‘quick/bright mind.’
> 
> updates may be a bit slow until this semester ends, but i've got it drafted so hopefully it won't take too long.  
> comments are always appreciated. do we like where this is going? :)


	2. You Were My Favorite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Armorer may have left gaps in the history he was taught, but she did not lie when she said that their secrecy was their safety. The moment the Tribe revealed their existence in the tunnels, they condemned themselves to die in them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my gosh, im amazed how many have read and given this kudos! if you want to see more of my writing about boba, go check out my boba and fennec centric fic,  
> [ stuck in the system.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141886/chapters/71543130)
> 
> comments, prompts and questions are always appreciated. all my love.

"I've only got one Mando on record."

"Here on Trildan?"

"Yes, here. I only keep notes on the ones that come in."

"You don't keep track of those you move off planet?"

"No, why would I? They're not my problem. I've got enough problems." 

After a long night of lurking about the city, he finally rooted out the location of the contact he’d set out to find.

Ephra Dane was a five foot tall, seventy-two year old Zabrak smuggler whose resting face reminded him, somehow, of a very displeased frog. She squinted up at him. "You said Koska sent you?"

"Yes, she did."

"Probably just to get rid of you." 

Din just scowled, following silently as she rushed ahead- quite fast for someone her age, _really_ \- bustling through the mountainous stacks of junk that crowded her warehouse. 

"Here's one of them."

"One of what?"

"My problems." She made a sharp left into an overflowing office, shouting; "Karlo! Where did you put the datapad with this month's records?"

A snoozing Yarkora jolted upright, emerging from his camouflage of books and tools. "What? This month?"

She stared at him. 

"This month's records! Yes! Here, mother-" He scrambled for a nearby datapad, throwing it across the expanse of junk. Ephra caught it effortlessly. 

She hummed and spun on her heel, forcing him to follow her through yet another maze of hallways. An Ugnaught passed them along the way, offering them both a friendly salute. Ephra pointed at him. "Go help your brother in the office, he's slacking off." 

He rushed the other way.

"So," said the smuggler, "tell me the word."

He blinked. If there was a word, then this meant it was someone he knew- someone who survived, and shared the convention of secrecy. It was difficult to dampen his own excitement. 

" _Buirkan_." In Mando'a, it meant _responsibility_. Whoever it was that Ephra had smuggled to safety, they had left that as a safeguard. The council had once agreed upon it as a sort of secret code in the case of separation. 

She pulled up a sheet of information on her datapad, offering it to Din. He looked over it, memorizing the coordinates, and glanced over the list of items purchased from her- a medikit, two bacta shots, a month's worth of rations, and what was labeled as "the trash sled." It was all very practical. The medical supplies concerned him.

"You do this a lot?"

"What, deal with Mandalorians?"

He nodded.

"I deal with people who need to get away from something, and fast. Sure. I've seen plenty of Mandos in my time. My business boomed following that purge." As if reading his mind, she snapped; "None but this one recent enough to give you a good lead, though, so don't start."

His voice dropped low. "Will you be giving people leads on _me_?"

"If you want to find others, you're gonna have to deal with the likely consequence of being found, yourself." 

He didn't know what to say to that. 

"Now, you've got credits on you, right? Wupiupi? Peggats? Aren't wasting my precious time?"

"I have credits."

"Enough?" She said, grinning in a way that indicated she thought she and her operation were worth quite a lot.

"Plenty."

They emerged from the back rooms into a cargo warehouse full of cargo ships, rickety speeders, boxes, bins, and other junk. Five young men of varying species bustled about, shuffling items from one end of the warehouse to the other. 

"Boys!" Barked the head smuggler, her presence turning all their heads.

"Yes, ma?" At least three of the men replied at once. Din tried not to laugh. 

"Get this man a speeder." 

  
  


•

Strange violet birds soared overhead. 

Kicking the stand on his loaned speederbike, Din stopped by the road. 

When he first sought out to uncover the location of a fellow Mandalorian, Din hadn't anticipated that the coordinates may lead him to _this_. 

The sight was arresting. All around him, the lush forest buzzed with life, and great mountains soared into the sky far over the horizon-line. A royal blue temple of smooth, matte stone stood tall in the forefront. 

It did not boast. It flaunted no accent colors and no decorated pillars, no statues or inscriptions. It looked like many smaller houses stacked upon one another, each additional layer a bit taller and thinner than the last, capped with a pointed stone roof. It was yet unfinished; scaffolding hugged the brilliant exterior, and the stone-paved area around it was encircled by an encampment of busy laborers.

When he'd read the map's brief summary of the planet, there was little to learn. The surface was covered in deciduous forests, was sparsely populated, and seemed focused around an Alum mine. To find such a bustle going on around _this_ took him by surprise. The locals must have been keeping this secret safe. 

Din left the bike behind, trudging down the path towards the construction site. He scoured the scene for any familiar silhouette, and was taken by the intriguing process. They seemed to be preparing certain interior elements outside, likely to be brought in through the large, unfinished gap that was the entryway. 

He wondered if everyone felt small, and awestruck, and a little bit alone when they looked at buildings like this one.

Then, he heard it- the sound of clanging metal. He turned and scoured the horizon, finding exactly what he was looking for; a black pillar of smoke trailing lazily into the sky. 

He allowed himself this one sentimental assumption. For a second, he could not breathe. For a second, he was a child again, running to the Armorer to prove his worthiness- to prove he earned what it cost them all to save him. That it was not a mistake. 

Din rushed past the crowd of species that tended the worksite, many of whom stopped to turn and stare as he passed. A forge waited ahead, spitting ash, the flap to the tent billowing in the air. He pulled it aside, a smile growing on his face.

The blacksmith turned, and disappointment stabbed him in the belly. 

"Can I help you?"

It was a Togruta; she had tall, proud brown montrals, and her brow was decorated with a chain of jagged animal's teeth. 

"I.." Din paused and cleared his throat, stepping carefully into the makeshift forge. He scrambled for what to say. "I'm looking for someone." 

_Someone who is not you_.

"I'm not in charge," the woman replied, turning her back to him as she tended the fire. 

"I see. I apologize." He flexed his hands, the leather of his gloves creaking, and turned to leave. Of course he would not find the Armorer here. It was his own fault for letting himself get so carried away. 

"Are you looking for work?"

He stopped. "No."

"I've been speaking to Yana. There's plenty to be done." She carefully set aside what looked to be a freshly made chisel, the edge still glowing ever so slightly.

He dimly remembered a time when he thought, one day, he would mold metal like clay, too; when he thought perhaps he could be a leader. Before such ideas began to frighten him. 

Her tone was encouraging. "The other Mandalorian seems quite busy; perhaps things would go a little faster with two of you." 

"Other Mandalorian."

"Yes. Are you a tradesman?"

"No. I'm not seeking employment." He came further into the tent, rounding the work table so he could address her face to face. "I've been looking for that Mandalorian."

"Not exactly hard to miss."

Din, a little stunned by the excitement and the disappointment and this subsequent hope, said nothing. 

"Anohna Zaawe," she smiled, extending an ochre-skinned hand. "Master blacksmith." 

He did not take her hand, ducking his head in greeting instead. "Sorry for... barging in. I thought I might find who I was looking for in here."

"Just me," said Anohna. "Come on, it's almost break. I'll take you back to look, otherwise you'll be chased off-site." 

"Thank you." 

She led him around the back of the temple, where many more workers crossed ways between their workspaces. Some carved benches out of the wood from massive trees; others lugged thick sheets of glass away, and some busied themselves with carving small, circular podiums from the same royal blue stone the temple itself consisted of. 

"How long have you been working on this?"

"As long as our faith persevered," Anohna said, and clarified; "we are reconstructing a very old temple that was destroyed."

He wondered if there had been Jedi here, buried with the rubble.

Din shifted in place, hands moving to grip his belt as he always did when unsure of what to say. "That's good." 

The bell rang, and all the tired construction workers, volunteers, laborers and artisans set their hammers, brushes, picks and chisels aside. 

"There he is," said Anohna, gesturing towards the back entrance.

It was Paz Vizsla, clad in blue durasteel, tall as the doorframe. He looked back at them and froze in place, arms full with a crate of supplies. 

“You know each other?” she wondered aloud, watching as Paz set down the crate and started jogging their way. The last time he’d spoken to him, they’d been knife-to-throat, each poised to cut. He hoped it didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t speak his name as he approached, keenly aware of the many listening ears all around them. Instead, once toe to toe again, Din clasped his forearm like a soldier, as they had been taught in the Fighting Corps all those years ago. “I didn’t think I’d find you here.” 

“Neither did I.” Paz turned his helmet to Anohna, his tone commanding. "Tell Yana I'm done for the day."

"I will." The Togruta took the cue to leave; she turned and smiled at Din, stepping away with a wave. "It was good to meet you; I'm glad you found what you were looking for."

"Thank you," Din replied. "Good luck with the temple."

"May the Force be with you."

"... May the Force be with you," he murmured half-heartedly, turning back to his friend. She was gone already, too far to hear it. 

The other Mandalorian's helmeted gaze turned towards him and for a moment, in the shape of that visor, Din saw every person who ever raised him looking back.

Paz's voice lowered. "We've got a lot to talk about. I've got a cargo sled we can ride back to where I'm staying." 

"I have something faster."

"Good. I've got someone waiting for me."

•

He cast one last glance back at the blue temple and wondered if this was the kind of place the Jedi had taken his son to live and be trained. 

Din didn't know what Jedi were supposed to act like, where they lived, or how their lives worked. The closest point of reference he had was the temple on Mala Ata Ata, where he'd spent two weeks working as a bodyguard for a diplomat on her pilgrimage.

He'd sat with a blaster in his lap and watched a crowd of elderly monks guide that day's pilgrimage in meditation, a practice which seemed more like a useful excuse to doze off than anything else. 

They'd tried to teach him how to do it, too. He scoffed at the time- how hard could it be to sit still and think of nothing?

Very hard, it turned out. He decided that day that meditating was for people whose thoughts were toothless and unobtrusive. 

Did they all live as those monks did? It seemed odd and unnatural to him to spend one's life hunched over in reverence, humming songs with no words, shunning all the pleasantries of life which he considered entirely necessary, like love, good food, and time spent with family. 

He figured Moff Gideon told him the truth, when he said that the followers of the Force were not permitted such things. How sad, he thought, how sad, for his child who loved to eat, and laugh, and to be held by a parent.

Din had tried once or twice, very clumsily, to meditate with the child, so he might find comfort in the memory of his own lost culture. He'd fallen asleep the first time, tipping precariously sideways; Grogu had laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

•

  
  


Inside of Paz's stone hut, the foundling Duny Sy sat by Din’s side as they watched Paz cook her a late dinner. 

"I never thought I'd see you building a temple. Or _cooking_." Or caring for a little girl, he thought, but said nothing of it due to the glaring hypocrisy. 

"I cook plenty," he bit back, clumsily measuring out the dry ingredients. "You just weren't around for it."

"I know more than he does," said Duny, bubbling with that childlike confidence.

Paz just huffed. After a good, thorough stir, the bread rose in the tin. He set the dish out in front of her like he was making a point. 

To see not just his friend, but another foundling of the covert filled him with such contentment that he struggled to think of any questions that mattered. He watched the girl as she cut her bread in polite little slices, glancing up every so often with her big, dark eyes, as if she too could barely believe what she saw. Her hair was done in neat fishbone cornrows, and her clothes were orderly, earth-tone, neutral. 

He wondered how she had come under the protection of Paz Vizsla, the hot-headed heavy that always seemed so hungry for the freedom Din’s title afforded him. He wondered if that freedom tasted different now. 

"I'm nine now," said the girl, completely out of the blue. 

He nodded very seriously, playing along. "I'm thirty seven."

"Good job." 

Din laughed out loud. He could remember a time when he, too, had been a parent of sorts to her- in the covert, where all had many duties to attend to, the act of caring for the children fell to every free hand. He hoped Paz could manage well enough on his own. He knew- he knew how hard it was, some days, but also how rewarding. He thought of a small green hand gripping his thumb; a little head on his chest, breath rising and falling in sleep.

Paz settled in across from them, his large frame comically disproportionate to the rickety table. "We've been here for only a few months now. The journey was.. difficult."

The mood shifted quickly- Duny looked down mutely at her bread and stew, going still. Din thought back on the many medical supplies they'd purchased from Ephra Dane. 

"I figured it'd be best if I found work while we recuperated. I tried the mine, but.." Paz scratched his neck, "it didn't work out." 

"And the temple?"

"It's simple work. I lift things, I help the quarrymen I cut the stone, I've helped guard it-- and the jetpack comes in handy." 

Before he could restrain the impulse, Din asked; "Where are the others?"

The stillness gave away much. Paz replied very carefully; "A few of us made an agreement to recoup here. We couldn't leave all at once, we were being followed. We scattered to try and shake them off." 

"They got here before you?"

"I haven't found anyone. I don't know. We were held back by an Imperial tracker- there was.. trouble, on Scipio, but I struck a deal and managed to get us smuggled here. I found no others. I asked Ephra Dane for any leads, but she claimed her sons had lost the past months records." 

"I see." 

After some time of idle chat, Din relaying his own journey to Trildan, they both looked over to Duny. Her eyes fluttered shut every so often, hands cupped tightly around her empty tin.

Din smiled at her, though he knew she couldn't see it. "Hey. You should get some sleep.. it's late." 

"But you're here." 

"I'll see you another time. Don't worry about me."

Though her expression was distrustful, her exhaustion won the battle. "Okay."

He could remember when he first saw her- just a bundle in her rescuer’s arms, crying out for comfort, discontent with the sudden darkness of the tunnels of Nevarro. _Why is she here,_ he'd asked. The other Mandalorian didn't look at him when she whispered, _they planned to make an example of her; to make her the last of her bloodline._

To kill a child for the farce of blood- Din couldn't fathom it. Somewhere out there, some title likely lay unclaimed, and it was better that way. It was better they did not get to use a child as a pawn in their petty political games.

"Goodnight, beroya." She had no name to call him but what he was.

"Goodnight Dun'ika." 

She hugged him very tightly, despite the armor in the way. 

He waited in the sitting area. Paz tucked the girl into her bedroom nearby, murmuring reassurances to her in Mando’a.

He wondered why the other survivors didn't stay and wait. In truth, he wondered if they'd ever even made it here. It became a very real possibility to him that it may just have been the three of them and the Armorer who survived. 

The Armorer may have left gaps in the history he was taught, but she did not lie when she said that their secrecy was their safety. The moment the Tribe revealed their existence in the tunnels, they condemned themselves to die in them. 

Paz stood at the door of the sitting room and answered his most burning question; "We tried to protect the children."

"How many people made it out?" He swallowed, apprehensive of the truth. "I saw a mountain of armor. Many of our brothers and sisters…"

"I know. I was there."

He looked away. "I’m sorry."

"I know five others left, each with a child in tow." Paz sighed, sinking back into the chair. "Daaka took the twins with her. I saw Kona carrying his little one, and I covered Mirai when she fled with three more. I took Duny."

"That's good."

"It was most important that we protect the children. We could not let the Empire snuff them out, too." 

His stomach churned at the mere thought. 

"There might have been more, but those are all I’m certain of. I hope they made it off-planet, at least." 

"So do I."

A pause. The stone hut was very quiet, but for the sound of insects humming in the forest outside.

"Did you ever go back?"

Din nodded quietly. "Long ago. The Armorer was still there. She was melting down the remaining armor, trying to collect everything still worth saving. I had to leave her behind."

Paz's voice lowered an octave. "You left her behind?"

"I had to."

His hand snatched his wrist in a grip so tight that it hurt. His tendons creaked, arm trembling.

If Paz wanted to break it, he could've.

Din must have seemed very duplicitous to him in that moment- to come here and act like an ally to some survivors, having abandoned others. And to think- it was not his worst sin.

He thought, very briefly; _twist a little harder. It wouldn't be unfair._

"I tried to stay, but I couldn't. She told me to go." He jerked his chin to the room where Duny slept, trying to make him understand. Trying to find comfort in his own excuses. "My foundling needed me." 

Paz exhaled shakily, releasing his arm. His voice was raw when he recited what must have comforted him most in these troubled months; "Foundlings are the future." 

Paz’s mother was once the clan _beroya-_ she disappeared and never came back, leaving him as the last to his clan name. On the sixth night of her absence, after hearing night after night of the other child's thinly concealed sobs, Din had crawled out of his bunk and gone to help.

He'd slept on the floor by Paz's bed for many nights after that, until the tears stopped coming.

He rubbed carefully at his sore arm. "I'm glad I found you." 

"I am, too." Then, as if struck by something, Paz asked the one question Din had prayed he wouldn't. "Where is _your_ foundling, Djarin?"

"I safely returned him to his kind." 

"I see."

Thankfully, he had no further questions. That was all. He seemed very small, at that moment, and tentatively suggested; "Your quest is complete. You could stay with Duny and I."

"No." He looked down at his hands. The darksaber weighed heavily in his bag. "One Mandalorian draws enough attention already. If I joined you now it wouldn't be safe. My reputation precedes me, and danger tends to follow." 

"We need a larger group, if we are to reunite permanently." Paz admitted, apparently still clinging to the fickle hope that there might still be a group out there at all.

"Yes. I may return to Nevarro soon, and try to see if the Armorer left any signs as to where she went." Among other reasons.

"That's good." 

"I will find more of our kind, from other clans and coverts, other houses." He paused, posture suddenly tense. "They may not be just like us. I have met others- some who follow the creed in ways I understand. Some in ways that I don't."

He was quick to refute Din's shameless blasphemy; "We follow the creed as it was written." 

That very moment, he could have looked Paz Vizsla in the visor and admitted to him that he had betrayed that very creed he spoke so reverently of. He had bared his face in front of outsiders- in front of _Imperials_ \- and had put the helmet back on. That, in the name of saving his child, he himself had become dar'manda. His soul would not walk the stars. 

But he was a coward, and so he said nothing. They stared at each other for a moment, visor to visor. 

Paz sliced through the silence with a whispered confession; "I miss the Tribe."

He shifted in his seat. "I do too."

"Do you think they are all.."

"They live as long as we remember them."

When they were children, they were friends. He missed the simplicity of youthful squabbles, and the ease with which the moods of life ebbed and flowed. It was easier then. It hurt less.

"Take care of Duny. She will remember you, too." 

Paz nodded.

Din stood up, slinging his cape back over his shoulder. “We should get some sleep.” 

Paz pointed at a rolled up mat by the door. “You can sleep in here tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said, and was grateful for the offer, meagre as it was. He’d slept in far worse places. “I’ll leave by dawn. I'll let you know if I find anyone else out there." 

"You know where to find me." Paz stood to his full height, staring down at him. "I will be here to help, if you need it."

"As will I."

"This is the Way." Paz murmured, clasping his forearm very gently.

"This is the Way." 

  
  


•

  
  


Even in his dreams he did not shed the beskar.

In his dreams, Krayt Dragons swallowed him whole. Sea creatures broke the surface of the water and ate his child.

Friends sunk their knives into his back.

An Imperial leader caressed his helmet and praised the craftsmanship of his dead ancestors.

Machines reduced the fields of his parent's farm to chaff, and crushed their bodies into powder. 

He walked in that world just as he did in this one- always in danger, on the razor's edge, his creed his only true line of defense. But this dream felt different- there were no yawning maws waiting to eat him, no blasters pressed to his back.

He touched the bed, which felt real, and his own skin in the gap between glove and sleeve, which did not. 

The door was open. The silhouette in the frame was broad and strong. In his dream, he imagined the weight of a head on his shoulder, a hand on his hip. A body that covered his body in a way that didn't make him flinch. 

His trembling hands rose to lift the other man's helmet so he might look him in the eyes. 

He woke up empty handed, alone on a mat on the floor, listening to the birds outside usher in the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t have time to hate anyone. I don’t have that kind of time."  
> \- Ikiru (1952)
> 
>   
> glossary:  
> (Mando'a)
> 
> * Beroya: Bounty Hunter  
> * Buirkan: Responsibility  
> * Dar'manda: Mandalorians who did not live by the Resol'nare were considered to be dar'manda—soulless, someone who was ignorant of their heritage and thus had no place in the Mandalorian afterlife. The state of being dar'manda was regarded as a fate worse than death in the Mandalorian community.  
> * 'ika: a diminutive, affectionate suffix that indicates something small, sweet, often in reference to children.
> 
> btw- i want to be clear that i don't see din's group as a "cult" at all. they are a minority group of genocide survivors. of course- they had to go to great lengths to survive.


	3. The Cavern of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't get lost out there, Boba had told him. Din looked at the dark circles beneath his eyes and the purpling bruise on the bridge of his nose and realized he had failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the tone of this feels very morose now but i promise good things are coming. the next chapter should be very exciting!

Nevarro had nothing to offer him.

It wasn't home anymore. It was the presence of his people that made it familiar and safe. With them gone, the place was little but a bitter reminder of their loss, and of the cost of his selfishness. The tunnels they'd fashioned into a meagre sanctuary were empty and cold.

He spent hours rummaging around in the sparse belongings left behind, searching with increasing desperation for any sign- any indication that the Armorer, or any other survivor, may have left to their next destination. All he wanted was a sign. 

To the silence, he spoke; "I did what was asked of me."

The sound echoed off the walls of the forge. This room had once crackled with heat, functioned as the communal center to the covert. Someone was always there, minding the fire, or confiding in their peers.

But there was no one left to confide in. It was just him, dropped to both knees, elbow deep in the murky misery that infected him, plucking out admissions to air to the emptiness. He didn't know why he came here, besides for the excuse of helping Paz- maybe some small part of him still felt tied to it, convinced that it may once again be inhabited- that if only he turned the corner quickly enough, he would see his family laughing, helmets off in the secure solitude of their hideout. It felt terribly childish. He indulged that childishness. 

"I did what was right. I protected the foundling, and returned him to his people." Din cleared his throat. The little silver ball weighed heavy in his pocket. "I gave Grogu to the Jedi." 

Din understood what it meant to witness the decimation of your kind- to be a child, torn away from all you'd ever known. How could Din deny the child the chance to gain back what was lost? Ahsoka had said, _there are not many left,_ and, _his memories go dark, after that_. It was only right to bring him back where he belonged.

He knew it was the right thing to do, and yet he felt no contentment with the choice. 

"I never recited the vow of adoption," he murmured to the silence. "But we both know." 

He wished the stone walls would crumple inwards, folding his body into the sheets of rock and sediment like a note tucked into the pages of a book. A dry, steady heave of air pulled him back down to reality.

Between the dust and the fabric and the sheet of beskar, his weapon dug into his hip.

He stared down at the darksaber and murmured; "Ibic cuyir an ibac ni ganar." 

It was all that he had, and he felt that he'd been cheated. The cold, dead relic of a way of life he didn't understand was no fair exchange for his child. He would've given it to Bo-Katan, if she would've just taken it without a fight.

But he knew very well why she didn't. The saber itself didn't mean anything. He may have been raised.. sheltered- but that did not mean he was blind to history. It was about deserving it. It was more the act of victory than the acquisition itself. It was the overcoming. 

He would have to make do with what he had. Rotating the hilt of the saber in the gloved palm of his hand, details awash with the harsh light of his headlamp, he started to formulate an opinion of the darksaber beyond considering it burdensome. It was a tool of his ancestors. A memory, encased in metal and crystal. 

Din didn't know if Mandalore would ever be home to his people again, if it was even habitable, if return should be their goal. To him, the Mandalorians were more than a place. They were a found people. That was enough- it had to be.

Did he deserve to keep it? Should he throw it off some cliff somewhere, to sink into the sea? Should he find Bo-Katan and test her hunger to have it?

Many ghosts lingered about him as he made his decisions. They brushed his back and murmured as he thought. This small, reclaimed object, just a fractal glimpse of his people's legacies, hummed in his palm. His fingertips flexed around it. 

Din should not be the only one to make this decision, and so he decided he would not be. He would seek counsel from the living; he would find his fellow Mandalorians.

He hugged those murmuring ghosts closer once more before they faded, sheathing the saber. 

•

"It looks…" Greef Karga trailed off, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to muster his manners. "Whole." 

Din snorted. "I'd hope so."

"You really didn't want something else? Could've bought something shiny and new!" Karga stalked around the base of his new ship, giving one of the side panels a firm knock.

"I didn't really have a lot to choose from."

It had been exactly one week and eight days since he left Trildan on a new ship, purchased from one disgruntled Ephra Dane. 

"Unfortunate. She does look… sturdy, at least." He tugged experimentally at one of the panels below. It didn’t pop open until he surreptitiously swiped at the door release on his armband. Greef took his time checking out the innards of the thing, flipping switches, touching things. Din didn’t know why he was so invested, but didn’t bother to ask. 

Greef thumbed at the paper diagram taped to the wall. "It's _very_ tall. What for? More residential space?" 

Din shrugged.

"I'd ask you if anything exciting's happened lately, Mando, but I have a feeling you're just going to grunt at me."

Stubbornly refusing to prove him right- and blanking on anything else to say- he remained silent, leaning into the ship as if to inspect something himself. Karga sighed, accepting this small denial. He pointed at the fresh, red text on the hull. "How do you say the name?"

"It's in Mando'a," he murmured. He'd painted it on himself, the night he returned from his search in the tunnels. "Just call it the _Slate._ " 

"The _Slate_ ," He huffed. "Charming. I suppose that turning in the Moff paid off after all." 

The mere mention of the name made him scowl in discontent. "I should've pushed him out the airlock." 

"And go home with empty pockets?" Greef tapped the side of the ship once more before helping him lift and latch the panel back in place. He wasn't wrong; he did, in fact, still have more than enough of the New Republic's reward left to live off of. Enough that it made him feel more guilty than secure. 

Greef chuckled. "Well, I'm glad to see you're all set to get back to your travels. Get back out there, Mando, and bring that little green baby when you come back. I miss his sad eyes."

Din said nothing, hitting the button on his vambrace that lowered the ramp. 

"Goodbye, Mando!" 

The ramp clamped shut behind him, sealing him into its silent hull. 

•

  
  


Every day, Din Djarin woke up in an empty cot on an empty ship, cramped between dubiously secured metal panels and loose, threadbare sheets, surrounded by the vast emptiness of space. This was normal. This was the life he chose to live. 

He missed the sheets he'd sewn and patched time and time again, and he missed the familiar rattle and hum of the ship he'd worked so hard to earn. This new ship was too nice. Too clean. Not quite his, just yet.

For a time, the first thought on his mind was; what shall I do to feed the many foundlings today? Then, the thought became smaller, but more intense; what shall I feed _my_ foundling today? And then, at the very end of it all, with no mouths to feed beside his own, he realized he might have to move himself up on his list of priorities. 

This was odd, and uncomfortable, and made him lie just a bit longer in that back-breaking cot, hoping something else more interesting or urgent might come along for him to do. 

Of course, nothing ever did. Din stood and slowly began to put on his armor. 

Stepping aside to the refresher, he cleaned his teeth and scrubbed his face. The sight in the cracked mirror was morose; he'd let his hair grow longer than he ought to have, his mustache and beard to the point of unruliness that bothered him beneath the helmet. He considered shaving, but it didn't really matter, did it? No one was going to see it.

 _Don't get lost out there,_ Boba had told him. Din looked at the dark circles beneath his eyes and the purpling bruise on the bridge of his nose and realized he had failed.

Fleeing his reflection, Din shoved his helmet onto his head and climbed to the cockpit.

The _Slate_ was a good ship. A bit beaten up, but far more spacious than the _Crest_. She was more a cargo ship than a gunship, but he took what he could barter for. 

Its real name was _Cin Vhetin._ It meant new beginnings. A clean slate. A white field. 

When he was young, his mother pointed to the snow that smothered their crops and said in a language he no longer spoke, "We should be grateful for the death; life comes back stronger in the spring." 

He lowered into the pilot’s seat. Din had a mission in mind; didn't know where to start, but he supposed that had never stopped him before. Weighing his options, he decided he may as well take advantage of having reliable connections for once in his life.

Fennec Shand and Boba Fett had a kingdom to their names, and surely a long list of contacts and information that they might just be willing to share, if properly incentivized.

(He thought of the dream, and the hand on his hip, and-)

Din inhaled deeply and shook away his nerves, punching in the comm-link. 

Boba picked up much faster than he'd expected. "Hello there."

"Boba."

The man's masked face gave away nothing; his voice, however, was warm. "It's good to see you." 

He swallowed, trying his best to remain focused. The only reply he could manage was a nod.

A beat of silence passed between them. The other man leaned slightly closer to the holo, his silhouette growing bigger. His voice was low; "Is something wrong?" 

_Yes_ , he thought, and said instead; “I have a request."  
  
"I'm listening."

"I need to find other Mandalorians.” 

“Mandalorians? I would’ve thought you’d had enough of them for the time being.” 

"There are other survivors out there. We need to.. regroup."

"Taking that new role very seriously, are we?" 

Mand'alor. Darksaber. _Buirkan_. 

Din said nothing, swallowing down his retort, waiting patiently for the other man to consider his request. Boba's blurry silhouette disappeared momentarily from view, reaching for something. 

Fennec’s voice emerged from the background; “The tunnels under the Motesta Oasis.”

“You think so?” replied Boba, reappearing in the holo just as he pulled the helmet from his head.

“I think so.” 

Silence. Din waited; he’d been to Tatooine many, many times, and even the sight of the imposter, Vanth, had been a great surprise to see. To think that some of his people could have been lingering just out of sight, unknown to him for so very long, disturbed him.

The other man’s eyes turned to him once more. The barest hint of a grin spread on his face. “What's in it for me?”

Sitting there with too many credits for his own good and little to lose, Din said; “Whatever you’d like.” 

Boba snorted. “I’m sure we can figure something out. How soon can you be here?"

"As soon as I'm invited." 

"Come as soon as you can." Boba glanced quickly over the camera and then back, nodding. "We will help you investigate." 

"You're under no obligation to." 

"I know," the other man shrugged. "I like to know what's going on in my territory." 

He quickly tapped in the coordinates. "I'll be there soon."

“Don’t make me wait too long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You know how you let yourself think that everything will be all right if you can only get to a certain place or do a certain thing. But when you get there you find it's not that simple.” ― Richard Adams, _Watership Down_
> 
> Glossary:  
> (Mando'a)  
> *Buirkan: Responsibility.  
> * Mand'alor: someone who unites the clans. A ruler of the people.  
> * Cin Vhetin: fresh start, clean slate - lit. white field, virgin snow - a term indicating the erasing of a person's past, and that they will only be judged by what they do from that point onwards.  
> * Ibic cuyir an ibac ni ganar: (rough translation- please correct me if i'm mistaken.) = "this is all that I have."
> 
> for context, i write that the covert took their helmets off when in private together. friendship ended with canon now making shit up is my best friend


	4. What Time Has Anchored Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great room stood before him, black and cool. He could hear the quiet drip of moisture from the ceiling. Din flicked on his night-vision setting within his helmet. 
> 
> Awash with dull red Illumination, the room revealed itself to him.
> 
> Every wall was covered, floor to ceiling, in handprints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: description of kind of an arachnid like creature, though its closer to a scorpion than a spider. brief discussion of slavery. violence.  
> thank you for your patience!! the comments and encouragement mean the world to me.
> 
> here's a link to  
> [ the spotify playlist for this fic.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7qvlWhVwxgegJZN6IibfQS?si=Cq7B7HWDSVq_eiexN021Xg&utm_source=copy-link)

Every year, it rained an average of twelve inches on Tatooine.

The weather tracker in Din's visor display alerted him that it had just rained a hearty two inches in the last night and, judging by the many hopeful buckets and pots and pans set out on stoops and rooftops throughout the city, this was a very exciting matter. 

The air smelled strongly of petrichor.

Away from the city, Din walked to the palace. The half dozen moisture vaporators surrounding it hummed furiously, clearly busy at work. It'd been a long, long time since he'd last stepped foot on Hutt grounds. The change in ownership only slightly soothed his dread at the thought of that throne room. 

Halfway down the stairs, his worries abated. 

Upon the bloodstained Hutt throne sat Boba Fett. To his side stood Fennec, just as proud, always so at ease. 

He split through the crowd of anxious supplicants like a sword through flesh. They made room for him both in body and voice, all bustle and conversation halting. Din knew he stood out among the throng, clad as he was in shining beskar, silhouette matching their king. Many stared openly at him. He knew many of the faces that filled that room.

"Leave us," said Boba, looking directly at him. But it mustn't have been for him, because the wave split once more, the many attendees scattering in all directions. Some descended deeper into the palace- others fled. Din did not kneel, did not run or waver, just held his chin high and waited. The room grew very quiet. The desert supplied a silence so vast and all encompassing that even the expansive palace could not help but be overcome by it.

"Dragonslayer." 

That was new. Din didn't know what to do with the title, so he did nothing, keeping his tone simple and direct. If he focused hard enough, he could almost make out the distant hum of those vaporators outside. "Boba."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I did."

"And you didn't get lost."

"No."

"That's good," praised Boba. "You're good at what you do."

Din mustered the scraps of his pride, unsure of what to do with that praise. He flexed his hands at his sides. "Yes."

"Such confidence." 

A pause. Boba's hand moved from the arm of his chair to his lap. "Have you eaten yet today?"

He shook his head, because he didn't know how to tell him that it'd been nearly three days since he had a proper meal. 

"Hmm." And then Boba turned to his friend, who had stood at his side and listened all the while. His tone gentled in a way Din didn't know was possible. "Fennec?" 

"I'm alright," she spoke, and from the look she exchanged with the blackness of Boba's visor, Din figured they must've shared a great and expansive language between them that had little need for spoken word. "You go. I will stay here."

"I'll cook tomorrow." 

"I'd rather you didn't," she teased.

"Fine." Halfway to standing, he paused, pointing at the entryway. "If that damned moisture farmer crawls back here asking for--"

"I'll handle it." 

"I'm sure you will." Boba sighed and stood aside to let her take his place on the throne. 

"Go on," Fennec said, and finally turned her eyes to Din, who had resigned himself to awkwardly standing with his hand on his belt, trying hard not to look all too curious about their conversation. "Good to see you Mando."

"Shand," he acknowledged simply, and they exchanged sage nods in greeting. Boba hopped down from the platform, dislodging a billow of dust with his boots. 

"Come along; follow me." 

  
  


•

  
  
  


Why a king with access to all the coffers of the Hutt empire decided to keep his kitchen unstaffed, Din didn't know. 

The dining hall was so grandiose and large that he knew it must have been host to many great feasts. Long, smooth tables stretched across the room, stained with paint and scrawled on tags of names and dates and obscenities in hundreds of languages. To the side stood an open kitchen, where Boba Fett flipped some kind of egg in a pan. 

"You have less attendants than I'd expected."

Boba pushed at the food with a shrug. Sauce sizzled as it hit the oil. "I gave Fortuna's staff a choice. Some stayed. Some left. Some never had a choice before." 

"And Tatooine," Din began, leaning against the adjacent counter, "has Tatooine's role in the galaxy changed at all?"

"It's less of a skughole, or at least I like to think so." Boba laughed, dropping the eggs on a plate beside him and pouring new oil into the pan. Before he moved on, his voice grew very serious; "Tatooine's status has not changed. I pledge my allegiance to no one, remember that."

"The last time you said that, you indebted yourself to me minutes later."

Boba shook the spatula in reprimand, his helmet tipping in such a way that Din just knew he must be side-eyeing him. "For good cause. Only for good cause." 

Once the eggs had been scooped onto plates of rice and the tea was poured, they sat down across from one another in the hall.

"The palace looks very different," Din remarked.

"You've been before."

He nodded. "I took jobs in the area a few times. Never got this far inside, though."

"And? How is it different?"

His hands flexed beneath the table. "You and Fennec removed the.. chains."

Once, in every room he'd ever walked into in this palace, there had been metal loops bolted on the ground or to the walls. The intended use would've been glaringly clear even without the presence of those bound there, but he'd seen how the _“indentured servants_ ” and enslaved people cleaned and tended the palace, served food and worked and could not leave the designated area of those bolts. There were holes in the walls just across from them, and Din knew what once occupied that space. Knew what was missing. He thumbed at the plate in front of him.

"We did. It was the first change." That helmet tipped down, the fresh green paint distinct against the brown clay walls that surround them. "We are not some kind of heroes here to clean up the planet. We are only people. We will not treat others like they are not."

"You're a little more than that, now."

Boba shrugged. "No, not really."

"Fennec is staying, then. Ruling with you."

"Of course. I saved her life." Then, more quietly; "and she saved mine. Where she goes, I go."

Din, out of practice with common conversation, merely made a prompting noise. A, _tell me more_ , kind of noise.

"I repaired and replaced most of her frontal abdominal organs with cybernetic implants. Put a chip in her head to assist with balance, and to manage the machinery," he elaborated, and yet did not offer any explanation as to _how_ he so casually knew how to do such a thing. "She has stayed with me ever since. She is a good friend to have."

It was truly shocking that, after all that, Fennec hadn't made an attempt on his life. Well- he figured she sort of did, back on Tython, but that was more for Boba than for herself. How strange.

"You make a fearsome pair." A high compliment, from a Mandalorian.

"I know."

Boba reached up to the back of his own helmet, unlatching the release with a very quiet hiss. He eased it off and set it aside, and Din watched his every movement. How his face, taut with scars, shifted from a smug smile to a reserved earnestness. How his eyes shifted to Din's, watching, unblinking, as he lifted his tea to his lips to drink.

Din's posture stiffened. He set his hands upon his lap like a child awaiting instruction- or ready to bolt. Though the other man didn't say a thing, he still felt the need to defend. To explain. "I can't take it off just to eat." 

Boba, still, said nothing.

"I broke my creed once already." The admission rolled off his tongue with such ease that it stunned him. Boba already knew- knew he'd bared his face to the room, knew- but it still felt odd to admit it in such a way. "I will not do it again."

"You didn't break anything."

“I did,” he snapped, but quickly looked down. “I broke my creed for the child. I had to, or else he.. we wouldn’t have been able to save him.”

"You're not treasonous for saving a child. If that makes you a traitor, then you should be proud of the title." 

"I-"

"If another follower of your creed showed their face to save a child, wouldn't you think it was worth it?"

Indubitably. Without question. He sighed. “Yes.”

"Then you'd best assume they'd afford you the same forgiveness." His voice was hard, determined. "When I look in the mirror, I see my father's face. The memory means much to me. The child-"

"Grogu."

"--Grogu, will remember, too." 

Din, very hungry, looked down at his eggs and his cup of tea, warm, radiating heat quietly against him. "I…"

"I'm not going to ask you to take it off. I can go, if you want to eat in private." Boba's hand tightened around his own cup as if ready to get up and leave, just like the last time. No questions asked. 

It'd be a very easy solution. 

"I'd like it if you stayed." 

Saying nothing at all, Boba moved to stand. With the plate in one hand and cup in another, he moved around the table to sit at the table behind Din, back to back.

He heard the scrape of the cup; a quiet sip, a hum. Din's hands moved to unlatch his helmet from his head. 

"Just eat your food. Stretch out your legs."

"I am."

Din slowly began eating the rice and eggs with his hands. It wasn't much, but he enjoyed it. He sipped the tea. He relished in the warm and undemanding presence of the other man behind him. 

"See? It's nice."

".. It is." 

  
  


•  
  


The Motesta Oasis wasn’t much to look at. 

Wasn’t really an _oasis_ , so much as a place with a few feet of shade. All that remained of the sparse village was a huddle of abandoned homes, an empty well, the broken charging ports of a couple of moisture vaporators, and an empty Bantha enclosure. In the center of the enclosure laid the long-since picked apart carcass of its previous inhabitant, mostly bone by now. 

It was what lingered underneath that interested them. 

Fennec led the way. She was the one who heard the rumor in the first place. Boba and Din followed close behind, each on foot, their speeders and speederbikes left far in the distance underneath the meagre shade of a crumbling old tree. 

The sun set slowly on the scene. Din regretted coming so late, hoping nothing nocturnal might decide to disrupt their investigation.

She walked very slowly around the back of the Bantha enclosure, holding a hand up, instructing them to wait where they stood. “She said it should be around here..” 

“Mey-La’s not exactly the most reliable contact when it comes to these things,” Boba muttered.

Fennec ignored him completely. She took heavier steps, tapping on the ground with her boot as she moved- testing the earth for some sign that Din wasn’t aware of. One, two, three steps, all just sand and dirt, and then the fourth- a hollow thud. They all froze. Slowly stepping back, Fennec squatted and tested the ground, thumbing the edge of some metal panel with her thumb until it caught on a latch. 

“Not reliable?” She replied in a mocking tone, lifting a large metal panel with one hand. It groaned as it raised, the pit beneath coughing up dust. 

"There a ladder?" Boba asked in favor of replying, trudging up to the rim of the pit and squinting into it. 

"No!" she shouted, already having thrown herself into the black abyss below.

Din and Boba exchanged a glance. Din shrugged.

Boba lowered himself to sit on the edge of the hole with his legs dangling into it, groaning and grumbling all the way down. The thud of his landing was audible from high above. 

It was Din's turn to stare down into it, letting his visor judge the distance. Not as bad as it seemed. He grabbed the string attached to the inner panel and dropped down into the darkness, snapping the lid shut overhead as he fell.

"Why'd you go and close it?" Boba grumbled, and Din couldn't reply, still struggling to stand after his unceremonious tumble into the dirt. "Here, my night-vision sensor.."

Just as Din reached to switch on his own, Fennec interrupted: "I don't have one of those, turn on your headlamps."

Three headlamps switched on all at once, jarring against the previous pitch blackness. Each dusty and squinting as their eyes readjusted, the three turned to look around. 

They were in a natural cave. Stalagmites dangled from the ceiling, and the terrain was rough in some areas, and smooth enough to slide on in others. The walls were a deep, dark orange, and the layers of alternating colors resembled waves in the sea. Din wondered if water had once rushed through these tunnels, molding everything into undulating waves of sediment. 

Boba pointed his headlamp straight ahead. "Thirty until a solid wall, and a gap between it."

Din and Fennec nodded, the three slowly stepping into line behind Boba as they carefully navigated the uneven ground of the cave, ducking under low stoops and fitting their armor and weapons in between the sides of the unintended walkway.

"I'll go first," Din said as they approached the gap in the stone. "We're here on my account." 

"By all means." Boba squeezed himself against the wall, allowing him to brush past. 

Din was not naturally claustrophobic. In fact, he'd gotten quite used to sleeping and living in confined spaces, and he'd spent his life living in a cramped, dark, wet sewer. This should've been no trouble. However, Din was not prepared for the odd fit of his body through the unnatural curve of the tunnel, forced to go sideways, legs bent forwards and back curved out the other direction. 

It wasn't that it was tight, per se- most humanoids would most likely be able to squeeze through- but rather, the prominent threat of the large rock he had to curve his chest around deciding to crush him weighed heavy on his mind. 

He came out the other side panting, peering nervously back at Fennec as she followed. Of course, the looming closeness of the stone didn't seem to bother her a bit. Of course. Din sighed and offered her a hand as she emerged, which she did not take. 

Boba followed next and likewise, Din lingered by the gap and waited, hand outstretched, for Boba to make it through. Completely unscathed and likewise unbothered, Boba gave his hand a good squeeze before he quickly released it, stepping past Din to take in the new space.

They stood in a man-made hallway, smoothed out and cut from the walls of what was most likely once an existing natural tunnel system. 

The ceilings were high, and he knew they were quite far from the abandoned village of Motesta, now. 

Tunnels sprawled out in many directions, but the main hallway was relatively straightforward. There was the occasional arched doorway on both sides, and there was a long, gnarled tangle of cords running along the roof, every attached glass bulb shattered. The air was stale. 

"How far to the end?" Asked Fennec.

"Fifty feet," Boba and Din replied simultaneously, before Boba laughed and continued, "I'm not sure if it's a dead end or a turn." 

They walked ahead for some time. Every room they peered into seemed oddly sparse and barren, showing no evidence of ever having been inhabited. They checked almost every room, remaining largely silent, all somehow wary of the prospect of making their presence known. 

Din stopped. Nearly to the end of the hall, there was a black panel on the wall- technology he didn't recognize. Beneath it there was a singular inscription, the font worn down by time. It was written in Mando'a. 

_Ur'nau'mur, nu'nau'jehaat._

"What's that say?" Asked Fennec, running her forefinger underneath the text.

"Without light's kiss…" Boba began, but trailed off, leaning closer to inspect the second half.

"Without light's deceit." Din stood still for a second, glancing around the pitch black halls for anything else they might've missed, casting a tunnel of light with his headlamp everywhere he looked. "Turn off your headlamps." 

They both did as told. Darkness descended all around them.

In the smothering silence, something hissed.

Din very carefully reached out with both hands and found that, where before there had been a panel and a wall stretching out above and below, there was empty air. "It's a door," he murmured, as if frightened it might shut at the sound of a voice.

The three shuffled single file through the passageway. Once sure the entrance was several steps behind them, they turned on their lamps one by one. The door behind them slid shut with a hiss just as a new one before them opened. Dim light flooded in from the unexplored passageway ahead.

Din tensed. 

On the floor before them lay two corpses. 

They were Mandalorians, clearly somewhat old. Their armor- likely durasteel or something more malleable- was so battered and scraped that it looked more like shredded sheet metal than clothing. Both of their helmets were pierced through the visor, the glass cracked in ragged edges. The bodies were well preserved by the conditions of the cave, the cream-color linens of their flight-suits tinted with ancient, dark, browning bloodstains.

Boba was the first one bold enough to kneel and check their hands and pockets.

"Don't steal from the dead," Fennec chided.

"Not stealing-" he plucked out a little golden charm, giving it a once over before returning it where he found it. "Just checking if there's any hint as to what happened here."

"I doubt they were carrying around flimsi predicting the circumstances of their death."

He turned away as they argued, unable to stomach the sight any longer. At least those killed in his covert hadn't been left there to rot like that. At least their armor had been remade. 

Boba touched his shoulder as he passed by him, squeezing through the archway and stepping into the hall ahead. "Nothing on them." 

Din had a myriad of stupid, naive questions running through his head, none of which he felt young and shameless enough to voice to his seasoned companions. So he stayed silent, marching ahead with careful, wary steps. There were neatly spaced walls along the left side of the hall. Between each door was a domed skylight in the ceiling, only slightly raised, each caked with dirt. The light outside was the soft blue that hailed sunset, fading quickly, submerging the path in relative darkness once more.

"How much farther now?" Asked Fennec. 

"Not sure. Think there's more turns from here on out." Boba ran his hand along the wall as he walked deeper inwards.

"We should stop in here for the night." The sniper had stepped into one of the side rooms, in a space crowded with sleeping mats and bedrolls encircling a long untouched fire. Above it trailed a long pipe, the light from outside shining through the gap meant for smoke to exit. "It's late. We drove for hours."

"Fine with me," said Boba.

Outvoted, Din didn't know how to express how very deeply he didn't like that idea. He relented with a tense, jerky nod, stepping slowly into the room where the dead had once slept. 

Fennec leaned against the doorway. "I'll take first watch."   
  


•

  
  


When Din woke up sweaty and distraught, face streaked with tears beneath the shelter of his helmet, it came as more of an inconvenience than a surprise.

He rolled onto his side with a quiet groan that he urgently tried to suppress. His heart pounded in his chest. The ground seemed to sway, his throat sore with the scream he almost voiced the moment he snapped awake.

The tunnel was too much like the one his people died in. The one he grew up in. He pictured stormtroopers and shiny-toothed human men with clean, crisp uniforms standing in the hallways with guns trained at himself and his friends.

"Bad dream?"

His head snapped up.

Fennec Shand looked at people like she was peeling them apart with her eyes.

It wasn't a mean thing; there was nothing accusatory or invasive about it. She just knew you. Saw through you. Oddly enough, Din didn't really mind. In fact it was almost reassuring to feel seen, respected and relied upon without having to slog through tedious conversations proving yourself. He could understand why Boba Fett followed her the way he did, always close by her ankles. 

Din didn't reply- couldn't, really, finding it troubling to describe it with a word as weak as _'bad.'_

She moved to crouch by the fire, settling on her haunches, rifle set aside, arms resting on her knees. "Do you come from a place like this?"

Looking around at the dark shadows and exposed pipes that filled every wall of the cramped underground room, Din nodded and said, "Yes, just about." 

"Are all the groups underground?"

"We only did that because it was the safest option," he replied somewhat defensively. "Few _choose_ to live in sewers." 

Fennec grunted. "I suppose the pickings are slim when you're hiding from Imps."

He sat with his hands propped on his knees, leaning back against the wall. They were silent for a time. Across the ways, Boba slept with his back to the wall, body rising and falling in slow breaths.

"I was an orphan, in the Phirmist temple on Durkteel." Fennec adjusted the rifle at her side.

"I'm not familiar with Phirmists."

"Most aren't," she huffed. "They were believers in the Force. A small sect. Significant enough that the Empire hated them enough for the Phirmists to hate them back, and small enough to skate by undetected, most of the time."

She said _they_ like she was separate from them. Din wondered how one could so strictly divide their present and their past. 

"Most of the superiors of the temple went on pilgrimage to Jedha, where they settled. I and the two other children were adopted by the remaining temple guardians, my fathers, who refused to go." 

Her silence went on for a time before he realized she anticipated some kind of response. Having nothing to share but some meagre sense of solidarity, Din offered; "I was a foundling as well, taken in by Mandalorians after a separatist raid."

Fennec didn't look at him, her eyes kept trained on the fire. 

"Did two monks teach you how to shoot like that?"

"I said they were _guardians,_ " she defended, glancing up quickly to glare at him, "but yes. Once it was just us left in the temple, Imperial forces sought to destroy it. We had to leave. My fathers aligned themselves with a crime syndicate in exchange for secure housing for all of us. It was up to me to pay off that debt when they died." 

"Does Boba know all of this?"

"Of course he does." 

How odd it must be, he thought, to have someone by your side who knows everything about you and doesn't run away from it. He ground the toe of his boot in the sand and said; "You go ahead and sleep now, I'll keep watch."   
  


•

  
  
  


Several hours later he stood in the walkway, hands resting on his belt. The tunnels were dark and dim; only the barest slivers of moonlight slipped through the silt-covered skylights dotting the walkway. 

The tunnels were sprawling and vast, and yet there was something uneven to them. The walls were not entirely level, the lines squiggling in and out. After only the barest moment of consideration, Din turned down the left hall away from where they'd come from, idly inspecting his surroundings.

It must've been carved out by hand. Peering carefully at the clay, he could confirm- small notches and marks in the long-solidified dirt implied shovels and picks had dug at it.

He turned at a gap.

A great room stood before him, black and cool. He could hear the quiet drip of moisture from the ceiling. Din flicked on his night-vision setting within his helmet. 

Awash with dull red Illumination, the room revealed itself to him. The sediment was rounded outwards. 

Every wall was covered, floor to ceiling, in handprints. 

There were no names written there. No dates, no symbols, none of the cubistic depictions of war his people's art was most known for.

No- just, handprints. So many that Din, stunned, had to turn full rotation to see them all.

Some were thin and frail; others strong, and broad. There were little handprints too, the marks of children, most low enough to reach but many very high up. Din smiled- he could almost see it- children on their parents arms, stretching and crying out across time, eternal through the mark of their presence, _let me paint, I want to paint!_

He pressed one hand against a palm much his own size. Years of history surrounded him on all sides. Where were they now? Did they still live? His thumb brushed against the clay. 

A long thread of saliva dripped on his helmet. 

His head snapped up, breath caught in his throat and-

Something struck his backplate with a force so violent it slammed him, front first, into the wall.

In his thrashing scramble to right himself his blaster was torn out of his hand, ricocheting across the room with an echoing clank so loud that he flinched. Din scrambled to his feet, breathless, clambering for the air that'd been punched out of his lungs, coughing and choking. 

Something hooked him just below the backplate. Not a second later Din was being dragged, face down, out of the room and back down the hallway. 

Whatever the thing was, it screamed.

For a second, he did nothing. He _couldn't._ The wind had been knocked out of him with such force that the best he could do was gasp in heaving lungfuls of air, hands scrambling uselessly at the dirt. 

Billows of it clouded his vision- still set to the night-vision setting. The slivers of light he'd found so dim before were now blinding, hot white streaks of color inside his visor display. He snapped his eyes shut and inhaled once, twice, three times, before bending and writhing so he might unsheathe the saber from his hip, or the spear from his back, the knife from his boot, anything, anything, _anything._

A blaster bolt popped in the hallway. It bounced off the tunnel wall in a blast of sparks, likely aiming for whatever dragged him. Din's hand flew to his helmet, and he shut off the night-vision as quickly as he could while the thing was distracted enough to pause. 

He then tried his best to dislodge the claw or hook or whatever it was that gripped him beneath the backplate, but just as he moved to unclip the piece of armor or wriggle the appendage out from underneath it, the world tipped upside down. 

Thrown through the air like a ragdoll, Din fell at least ten feet sharply downwards. 

He groaned.

If it weren't for the helmet he knew he'd have a mouthful of mud; knew there'd be blood caking his teeth, thought maybe he'd have a fracture to show for it instead of the dull ache that simply rattled his skull and let him go again, expecting him to stand up and shake it off. 

"Get up!" shouted Boba's disembodied voice.

He coughed and he sputtered, and he tried to do as he was told.

Just as he managed to turn flat onto his back, he saw what he'd been warned of. A massive, hulking, hissing creature scuttled towards him and then over him. It had dozens of legs that lined him to each side, all digging into the sand like needles, like a cage, keeping him in place. The shadows made it hard to see just what it was, but Din could see the glimmer of something sharp high above. He could see the way it flashed in the meagre light, descending towards him. 

He swung his arm wildly, his fist connecting with some kind of fleshy but taut outer husk. The creature blew spittle all over him- venom?- and it slammed its rearing spike into the firm beskar covering his chest. 

This, once more, knocked the wind out of him. His feet flailed for purchase in the sand. He thought back to the shredded chest plates of the corpses at the doorway, and shuddered violently. 

Another blaster bolt rang out. The thing above him screamed horribly. Din’s left collarbone ached in pain, too.

 _"Get up!_ _"_ Boba hollered once more, and Din could hear the roaring sound of a jetpack just as he scrambled up and out from underneath it.

Din quickly took in his surroundings. They were in a long, massive hall that looked almost like a training arena. The space was lined by crumbling balconies, and several Mandalorian corpses, some armored and some not, were scattered across the floor.

The ceiling was just high enough that Boba, suspended by his jetpack, could rocket over it to the opposite balcony, getting a better angle from behind it. Back and above in the direction they came from, Fennec was aiming her rifle on the balcony he’d been thrown off of.

The creature hissed.

First things first, he needed to get some space between it and himself, to get his bearings. He stumbled backwards, grabbing wildly for the beskar spear at his back- still more comfortable fighting with it than the darksaber- and pointed it outwards, back leg extended to steady him. 

A sliver of moonlight from the domed skylights above made it only barely visible, and Din could see its curved, arachnid body, the skin moist and translucent, the steadily shifting organs visible beneath its hard outer husk. Its tail was curved above its head, ending in a sharp, dripping point that jerked repeatedly in his direction. 

It reared its head and began scuttling towards him.To his side, Fennec fell in a well-orchestrated roll, leaping to her feet with a grunt. 

The creature was stopped in its tracks, yanked violently backwards by a cord around its tail. Boba’s grappling line. The man dug his heels into the ground at the edge of the balcony he stood on and shouted down at them; “I’ve got it still- _do_ something about that!” 

“Down,” Fennec said, and grabbed Din by the back of the neck to shove him to his knees. In one swift, fast movement she was behind him, balancing her rifle on his shoulder as a way of steadying her shot, aiming. Din’s face pinched with every shot, his right ear ringing, but he paid it no mind, focusing on taking a few shots of his own with his blaster.

It was pointless. The creature thrashed and hissed, spittle and venom flying through the air, but it did not bleed, protected by the translucent, armor-like husk that covered its body. 

“Get it to stand so I can shoot it in the belly!” Fennec shouted, sliding back and away from his shoulder with a few measured steps. He took the command in stride, thinking on his feet. His entire left arm felt like a white-hot searing point of pure agony, but he elected to ignore it.

Once off the ground, the arachnid rose to its hindlegs in pursuit of him, its two-pronged jaw snapping inwards. Din released the whistling birds from his vambrace. They shot towards its head and abdomen just as Fennec sniped it in the belly with three rapid, precise shots. It broke loose of Boba’s grappling hook just as it realized it was dying, making a last-ditch effort to kill the intruders. Choosing the most vulnerable of them all, Din saw as it stumbled towards Fennec. 

He dropped from midair, back turned to it, using his beskar to shield her from the swing of its tail. An odd, hot feeling spread through his back. His whole body jerked. Din turned just in time to see the creature, its organs swelling and pulsing, shriveling inwards, snarling, frothing all over the ground of the arena.

Din panted, watching it die. 

Boba dropped to the ground to its side, leaning over one of the Mandalorian corpses lying around. He pointed to the peeled-open carcass, a translucent sac sitting snug where old flesh should be. “It laid its eggs here. Think we pissed it off getting so close.” 

He shot the carcass with his flamethrower, watching the sac shrivel like its mother. To his side, Fennec squatted by a body, tugging an old looking datapad from their death grip. “This could be useful, Mando. Maybe some explanation of what happened, where they went.” 

“Mm,” he said, hands on his knees. 

“Mando?”

The room swayed precariously around him. The body of the creature stank. He leaned heavily on his knees until even that was too much exertion. He fell backwards.

Din hadn't even noticed he was bleeding until the heat spread across his back, pooling in the sand around him. 

"No!" He heard Boba shout, blinking blearily as unconsciousness pulled him under. He felt warm all over- both from the flood of blood that rushed out of him, and from Boba's closeness as he pulled him into his arms. Frantic hands pressed so hard against his wound to stay the bleeding that his vision went white. "Stay with me, stay with me-" 

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't. 

  
  


•

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the smell of disinfectant. 

Then, the light, his vision still clouded with the fog of sleep. He was in the palace, that much was clear from the smooth clay walls and plain tiled floors. Transparent cases full of medical supplies were stacked around the room, all neatly put in place. There was another bed across the way, and a chair close by his hip, to the side of where he lay. His back still stung. His shirt had ridden up, cummerbund removed, flak vest and upper armor set aside on the other bed.

Din snapped to full awareness and grabbed his helmet in terror, checking it was still there.

“Been out for eight hours.” Boba appeared over him and said, "quit looking at me like that, I didn't take it off." 

Just as he said, it was still firmly upon his head, undisturbed. He dropped his head back against the table, trying to weave through the blur of the last hours. He’d awoken periodically, forced to gulp down water, carried in someone’s arms. He could remember, at some point, trying to fight whoever it was that took his chestplate off, but it all blacked out after that. Reaching around to his back, he could feel where he’d been stabbed under the backplate. It must’ve happened when he shielded Fennec from the creature’s tail. 

“Who taught you how to do this?”

Boba, washing his hands in the nearby sink, replied; “How to do what?”

“Treating wounds like this. Like Fennec and I.”

“Your injury wasn’t as bad as hers.”

"Still."

“I'm no medic.”

Din rubbed very gently at the spot where the bacta patch still covered him. It was only mildly sore. In the moment he realized he'd been wounded, he thought it might kill him. Thought he might never see his son again. Perhaps he was being too dramatic. “Impressive work for someone who’s self taught.”

“Not all self taught. A good bounty hunter has to know how to save himself, you know. I had a few mentors.” Boba exhaled. "I learned first from my father. He taught me the simple things; bacta, stitches, how to use a defibrillator, a sphygmomanometer.."

Din watched as the other man dried his hands and moved to sit on the stool at his side.

"My second teacher was a Devaronian named Frayer Mimedhith. We shared a cell. I got in a lot of fights for no good reason, and she said she'd teach me a useful skill if I taught her one too."

"You were in prison."

"As a boy, yes." Boba nodded. "Wouldn't recommend it." 

His stomach turned to think of a child imprisoned like that. Din hadn't thought such things happened before the institution of Imperial labor camps, but he supposed there were quite a few things he didn't remember from the world before. "What'd you teach her in exchange?"

"I didn't teach her anything. She showed me how cybernetics worked, and I came close to mastering what she taught me, and she got killed."

“I'm sorry.” 

Ignoring the comment, Boba went on.

"I even learned a little from a defective med droid, if you'd believe it. I got injured on Hoth pursuing a bounty- dragged myself into the nearest medics hut, but the medic was dead and the droid was frozen into the wall." Boba gestured as he talked, with quick, controlled little motions. Far more expressive in private than he let on.

"My flamethrowers were busted, no time to melt it out. So I sat and I treated my fractured elbow and broken wrist while the med-droid walked me through it. Besides that.. I read. Learned a little from an old pirate bastard, and a bounty hunter who mentored me." 

“You learned well.” 

Boba stared silently at him for a moment. Whether he was taken aback, or bothered by the comment, Din couldn’t tell behind the shield of his helmet. When Boba finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that he could barely hear it; “Thank you.” 

Din slowly rose up on his elbows, moving to sit. It hurt, but it was only the dull kind of pain that could be pushed to the back of his mind. He slung his legs over the edge. Their knees brushed. He left it there, resting against Boba's leg for a time, trying to think of what to say. How to express his gratitude. The other man spoke first, twisting to pull something from the pouch on his belt. 

"Here," he said, holding out the datapad they'd uncovered in the caves. "I think this is yours."

"What's it say?" 

"How should I know?" Boba let it fall into his lap, crossing his arms, their knees still pressed together. "That's for you, not me."

Din, unused to being afforded such privacy and respect, quietly thumbed at the edge of the device. “I don’t know what I will do when I find them. Bo-Katan said this laser sword, the darksaber- she said it declares a certain right to the title of Mand’alor.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, dragonslayer. Progress is made in the present, not milling about in the past or guessing at the future. Just..” He tipped his head to look at the saber on his hip. “Life is to be lived now. That’s the survivor’s mindset. It gets you places.” 

And he was right. Din knew he was. A Mandalorian's place was in the now. Maybe it seemed callous, or shortsighted, outsiders often saw it as indifference to the greater scheme of things, but it wasn’t. 

“Come on. Where’s your _shereshoy_?”

There must be a price on this kindness, he thought, steadying his voice to ask; "How can I repay you?" 

Boba sighed like the response frustrated him. Gesturing vaguely he replied, "Come back some time. I'm sure I'll be able to figure something out."

"Okay." Din stared down at his lap.

"I should tell Fennec you're up. Give me a moment." 

He broke their small point of contact, rolling the chair back and leaving the room to go find her. Just as the door slid shut, he could hear the muffled sound of him shouting something indecipherable in Huttese. His voice faded down the hall. 

Din stood up, stretching with a groan. In the mirror across the way from him he twisted, so he could see the edge of the bandage on his back. Pulling down his unzipped flightsuit, he could see, too, the smattering of dark purple bruises across his collarbone. Thankfully not broken. He sighed. 

Boba must have sewn his flightsuit shut where it'd been torn by the creature’s stinger. He realized stupidly that the other man must've seen quite a bit of him, in order to bandage him up the way he did. It felt very intimate- too intimate to thank him for or think too much about.

He quickly zipped up his shirt and tugged it down in the front, stepping quickly over to put on his pauldrons, his vambraces, his chest plate, and the slightly dented backplate. 

Turning away from the sight of himself, Din picked up the datapad recovered from the cave. He sat down to turn it on. On the password page there was a Mando’a riddle; it was one that most Mandalorians learned in childhood games, so he tapped it in without hesitation. 

The device lit up. His heart pounded. He leaned in, squinting.

All that was on the device were empty folders and corrupted text files. 

He scrolled to the bottom of the page. Nothing. Nothing at all. No hint as to who the people were who had once lived there, and who were now buried there; no secret instructions to their next destination. Even if there had been, once- he assumed that must've been the case, considering the place it was found and the existence of the damaged files within it- it was now useless. They had wasted their time. 

The door slid open and shut behind him. 

"She's a bit.. busy," said Boba. 

He shut off the datapad in an instant and stood up again to gather his things, which were mostly already neatly organized on the table. His heart sunk low in his belly. What a shame. He was more annoyed by his own failure than anything else, and sought to find a quick distraction. Needed to get away from here. To think of something else.

Boba stepped in beside him, pushing a few ration bars and a personal comlink into his bag. “Take these with you.” 

Din pointed at his darksaber and joked, "You can keep this, if you want. We can trade."

"Never in a million years."

He huffed a quiet laugh and slipped his jetpack over his shoulders. Din gathered his useless, dead-end datapad, his meagre rations, the small tools he carried, his bandolier and his pouch, all the things he owned in the world and, thumping his beskar staff gently against the ground, turned, prepared to leave.

Boba accompanied him as he slowly made his way towards the throne room. They did not speak most of the way, Din too busy trying to think about anything except the horrors of the Motesta tunnels- the handprints, the bodies-

At the base of the stairs leading out of the palace, Boba reached out. His hand dropped not a second later, flexing at his side. “I..” 

“I’ll be seeing you,” Din said, because he was not very good at goodbyes.

Boba spoke very quickly, surely louder than he intended; "There’s room for you here in the palace, if you want it." 

He stuttered to a halt, both hands curling into uneasy fists at his sides. “Oh.”

He thought of the ruins of Motesta, and the promise of his peers waiting to be found. He thought of that empty, pointless datapad, and the fruitless and dangerous dead-end chase he'd dragged Boba and his dearest friend along on. Shame itched at him, embarrassment gnawing at his side. He looked down. "I’ll keep that in mind. I.. have somewhere else I need to go." 

Boba nodded. The look on his handsome face was oddly resigned- understanding, but touched by the barest hint of sadness. He did not reach out to caress Din’s helmet this time, but he stared, and his voice was very soft when he replied; "As you wish." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The center of danger is here, below us.  
> The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours.  
> This place is best shunned and left uninhabited." - _long-time nuclear waste warning messages._
> 
> Glossary:  
> (Mando'a)
> 
> * ur’nau’mur: without light’s kiss  
> * nu’nau’jehaat: without light’s deceit  
> (picked up these two phrases from izzyovercoffee on tumblr.)  
> * shereshoy: a lust for life. in mandalorian culture, stagnation is discouraged. change is life! change is how you grow! feeling a passion for change and new things is valued.


End file.
